Halloween
by Shnlock
Summary: John tries to persuade Sherlock to come to Lestrade's Halloween costume party; but Sherlock needs an incentive. Basically, smut, crack and a guy dressed as a fridge.


"-I'm not putting that on."

"Good God, Sherlock you have to wear _something-_ you, naked, is a bit _too_ terrifying for a Halloween party."

"-Don't be ridiculous."

"Although, you could go naked, I don't really mind."

"-John."

"Now there's an image. You – butt naked – arse swaying in the breeze."

"-Stop talking."

"I'd have to be careful not to get you excited, I mean, you wouldn't be able to hide it."

"-Stop now."

"It'd just be hanging out there for the whole world to gaze upon."

"-Shut up."

"Bobbing up and down if the wind changed."

"-I hate you."

"And by, 'It' I'm referring to your _lovely_ penis- _GAAAHH_!"

John backed out of the kitchen, avoiding the sheep intestines Sherlock was brandishing in front of him like a crucifix.

"Don't you even think about touching me with those! OK! OK! White flag." John held his hands up in front of him in surrender; his face so far back 'double chin' wouldn't begin to cover it.

Sherlock gave a victorious smirk and returned the sheep intestines to the tray under the grill, turning to run his hands under the tap to clean them. "John you miss understood me entirely. I do not wish to attend Lestrade's party _at all;_ neither do I want to adhere to a frankly childish tradition."

"Did… Mycroft steal your Halloween sweets as a child or something?"

"Every year."

John stuttered out a breathy laugh. No wonder the man was so flaming skinny. He turned and flung himself onto the sofa; covering it like a blanket – arms and legs akimbo hanging off the edges. Lestrade had extended out an invitation to them to his annual Halloween party. It was fancy dress, of course, and would most likely be full of Yarders, as well as Lestrade's out of work friends, but it was likely to be a laugh anyway. Lestrade had promised there would be absinthe; and what more of an incentive do you need?

"I'm not going, John." Sherlock said with finality, casting a grimace over the witches hat John had equipped the skull with.

"But, I rented our costumes and everything." John muttered, sounding ever so slightly like a kicked dog. He pouted down at himself and picked a hair from his cardigan.

"John…" came a low voice from the kitchen.

"No, no, I'm sulking, I'm doing a Sherlock and sulking; you aren't allowed to speak to me except to tell me how brilliant I am."

Sherlock snorted, and with a, "Be like that then." He swept out of the kitchen, through the living room and up the stairs, not even adorning John with a glance.

Oh.

"Bugger it." John scowled, hauling himself off the sofa and over to the black bag containing his costume he'd thrown over the armchair earlier that evening. He ducked under the novelty pumpkin bunting and pulled down the zip, grinning to himself. Even if Sherlock was going to be a spoil-sport and not attend, John might as well. It'd been too long since he'd attended a good party and Lestrade had thrown a few good ones before.

Like the one where they'd gotten Sherlock so drunk he'd taken off his trousers and spent the rest of the night under Lestrade's stairs laughing to himself and screaming something about a nipple monster.

Best. Night. _Ever._

John checked his watch; he had an hour before he needed to leave, and made his way into the kitchen for a cup of tea. Just as he was retrieving a mug from the cupboard, he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. He turned.

"Sherlock, did you want te-"

No. _No. _

Sherlock's smug expression spread into a sultry half-grin. "What do you think?"

John couldn't form words. There were no words. Sherlock stood in front of him, leaning against the arch of the doorway – his lean body arching sideways. He was wearing _nothing_ but tight, low cut leather trousers that flaunted his slim hips, and a Batman mask that obscured the top half of his face; framing his perfect bow-shaped lips. He'd artfully tamed his curls into stylish disarray, and was running a hand gently over the ridges of his bare chest, pale eyes glinting playfully. He looked, quite frankly, breathtaking.

"John? I asked you what you thought, of my costume." Sherlock dragged his tongue across his bottom lip then bit it slowly in an obviously suggestive manor.

It was working.

"It's uh- it's-" John honestly worked hard at drawing his gaze from Sherlock's naked chest, but failed. "Very… very nice, it's yeah- uh-"

Sherlock pushed away from the arch and padded forward, a predatory gaze fixing on John with a smirk. He backed John into the kitchen counter and leaned over him, his hands on either side of John's hips. John's breathing hitched.

"Just… nice?" Sherlock pressed. He ghosted his lips over John's, and then reached out to bite at John's lower lip, growling as he did so.

John shuddered out a breathy moan and pulled his lip away from Sherlock's mouth to reply, "Is this some sort of distraction technique to make me forget about the party?"

Sherlock chuckled under his breath and locked eyes with him again, slowly pressing the length of his warm body onto John's. He slid a leg in between John's and rocked his hips forward, his arousal all too evident.

"Is it… working?"

"…_yes._" John sighed.

"Good." Sherlock twisted and pulled away, walking out into the living room and collapsing onto the armchair, leaving a very stunned and very horny John standing in the kitchen wondering what the fuck just happened.

It took a few moments for John to recover. "Sherlock!" he growled, running out into the living room to confront him. Sherlock looked up from where he'd been assessing a medical journal.

"Yes, John?"

"You can't-! You can't just-!" John threw his hands in the air, part of his mind wondering idly how Sherlock could even _bend_ in that tight leather.

"I can't just, _what_?"

"Just come onto me like that then leave me standing there as horny as fuck!"

A smile quirked at Sherlock's lips, drinking in John's dishevelled appearance. "I see. And you, what? Want me to do something about that?"

John paused. Sherlock was taunting him, trying to get out of going to the dreaded Halloween party by using sex, and it was damn well working. But… what if he turned the tables…?

Not bothering to think it through completely, John stormed forward and plucked the medical journal from Sherlock's hands, ignoring the startled, "Hey!" that followed. He knelt forward onto the armchair and straddled Sherlock, grinding into him desperately, low moans bursting from both of them.

"_You_, are an annoying shit when you want to be-" John bit, breathless, scrambling to undo the buttons on his shirt. "You really are; I deserve a fucking medal…" He ripped at it, the last few buttons pinging off and pulled it from his shoulders, leaning down to claim Sherlock's mouth in a bruising kiss.

When he broke away again, they were both panting, Sherlock running his hands up and down John's back, nails grazing the skin.

"I don't know how I put up with you." John spat, thrusting his hips into Sherlock's for emphasis. "_Taunting_ me with that _gorgeous_ body of yours." Sherlock whimpered pathetically, and slid his hands up to John's neck to pull him down for another kiss. John resisted.

"No_. I'm_ in charge." When Sherlock tried to pull him down again, John bent and attacked Sherlock's neck with his mouth, leaving red, puckered marks along his skin, licking and sucking hungrily. All the while his hands worked on Sherlock's nipples, tugging and worrying at the buds of flesh, shooting bolts of pleasure up Sherlock's chest.

"J-John, please-" Sherlock breathed, his head thrown back. "John, fuck me, please-"

"What was that?" John replied silkily, sliding one hand down to palm Sherlock through the leather, his hot hardness straining against the tight material. "Did you want something?"

Again, Sherlock whimpered gently and bit his lip, the pleasure and pain almost too much for him to take.

"Fuck me, I need to feel you, please John, please."

John grinned victoriously against Sherlock's now sweaty neck and licked a broad stripe up it.

"If I do, will you go to the party?" John twisted Sherlock's nipples between his fingers, not hard enough to cause pain, but enough to tease.

"A-ah! Yes! Yes! I'll go- just- please-" Sherlock squirmed, the tightness in his trousers becoming uncomfortable.

John stopped all movements and raised himself slightly off Sherlock's lap so they were no longer touching. Sherlock gasped at the rush of cold air then whined at the loss of contact, rutting his hips upwards desperately in an attempt to gain friction, heady arousal clouding his brain. John undid his jeans and slowly slipped them down his thighs and onto the floor.

"Tell me." John breathed, barely a whisper, locking his eyes with in Sherlock's gaze, their pupils blown wide. "Tell me _exactly _what you want."

Sherlock swallowed heavily, trying to regain a little control in the situation; which was completely hopeless with John leaning over him, trapping him with his body. He leaned forward off the back of the armchair so his breath was brushing across John's face, then with a quick duck of his head, his pressed his lips just below John's ear and whispered,

"_I want you inside me."_

John felt a shudder run through his body violently. Sherlock's deep, baritone voice driven deeper by arousal practically vibrated through his entire body, making head way for his groin. He growled, fed up of playing, and lowed himself back onto Sherlock's lap; erection meeting erection, and returned his lips to Sherlock's, feeling the other man's hands shoot up to grasp hopelessly at his hair.

Hands fumbled down to Sherlock's leather trousers, John tore them open desperately, muttering, "Lift." into the kiss so Sherlock would raise his hips for John to slide his trousers off. They caught around his ankles and John mercilessly bit at Sherlock's bottom lip as he yanked them off and threw them over the room somewhere, not caring where they landed.

This wasn't the first time John had been so rough with Sherlock, but that didn't make it any less pleasurable. Sherlock was usually the dominant one in the bedroom, telling John _just_ where he wanted his lips, whether he wanted it faster or harder or slow and teasing. John usually came out of his shell when he was angry, pounding into Sherlock desperately in need of some form of release, tugging his hair and leaving bite marks over his shoulders. If Sherlock was honest with himself, he looked forward to those moments, enjoying the feeling of a hot panting John keen and release himself inside of him. It was bliss.

"Lube?" John muttered into Sherlock's mouth, having to speak around the other man's tongue.

Sherlock grunted, far too distracted by John's insistent tented cock rubbing aimlessly over his stomach. "On the mantle, ah- by the knife."

John twisted and lifted onto his knees, running his hands across the wooden surface and fumbling under the sheer amount of paperwork Sherlock had left on it. Sherlock took advantage of John's kneeled position and grabbed his arse, pulling him in and mouthing his erection through the fabric of John's boxers. John yelled in surprise, and let out a low moan, feeling Sherlock's tongue sliding wetly across his boxers, making them stick to his skin. Seeing two bottles he grabbed them both to check the labels. Sherlock pulled eagerly at John's boxers and slid them down to his mid-thigh, freeing his throbbing erection. It bobbed gently and Sherlock took the tip in his mouth, running his tongue over the slit.

"Sherlock, fuck!" John gasped, tugging at Sherlock's curls with one hand and trying to distinguish between the bottles with the other. Sherlock ran his tongue along John's shaft, then swallowed it, drawing his head back then pushing forward again. It took all of John's restraint not to rock forward into that hot, slick mouth.

Finally, it was apparent which bottle was lube, and which one was fake blood (thank God he'd bothered to check) and pulled out of Sherlock's mouth.

Kneeling back on his heels he pulled Sherlock's legs over his shoulders and flicked the lid of the bottle. He coated his fingers liberally with the liquid and slid the first finger in slowly, feeling Sherlock pulse then relax around him. He added a second, then a third, drawing them out to pump them back in, in short pushes. Sherlock scrabbled for something to grab and settled for the arms of the chair, gasping raggedly. As soon as Sherlock was loose enough, he snatched the bottle again and poured a small amount over his erection, coating it, then positioned himself, infront of Sherlock's hole, hands clamped over Sherlock's hips.

In one swift thrust, John buried his cock hilt deep into Sherlock. He pulled of gently then slammed back in, setting up a ruthless pace. Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's waist to pull him in deeper, arms winding around his neck. John growled at this and snatched up Sherlock's wrists pulling them above Sherlock's head and holding them there, still pounding into him ruthlessly.

Sherlock keened, his untouched cock twitching and aching, leaking furiously onto his stomach. He arched up into John's touch and cried out, John finally hitting that sweet spot inside of him.

John drew a circle with his hips and thrust back in, hitting the same spot over and over causing spots to dance in front of Sherlock's eyes. His rhythm was becoming more and more erratic, his breathing heavier, the deep warmth of arousal in his stomach curling lower.

"John, John, John," Sherlock began chanting, digging his ankles into the dimples above John's arse, driving him in. "I'm going to- going to-"

With a loud, strangled cry, Sherlock came over his stomach, throwing his head from side to side. John road out Sherlock's orgasm and came soon after, filling Sherlock.

They didn't move for a few moments, trying to catch their breaths. John pulled his softening member out of Sherlock and collapsed on to him, then after a moments thought lapped at the come covering Sherlock's stomach.

When he'd finished he fell b on his back on to the floor, a burst of manly giggles spilt from his lips.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked, tugging his leather trouser back up around his hips.

"Th- the mask!" John giggled, "You didn't take the mask off-eheheheeee!"

Sherlock reached up to touch his face, startling as he came into contact with the black silicone. "Oh."

This, of course, made John choke out more giggles and bite down on his lip. He raised a hand to run it through his hair, but caught the time on his watch, silencing his laugher.

"We're going to be late-"He got to his feet, "I'll be five seconds."

Before Sherlock could register this – still basking in a post-coital haze – John was half way up the stairs, black bag in hand.

Looks like they were going to the party after all.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

If it wasn't for the fact John was so far drunk he'd taken off his top, Sherlock probably would have left him to his own devices and got a taxi home alone.

When they'd arrived the party was well underway; witches, zombies, and even the occasional butt-naked drunkard bumping and grinding to the thudding base. Lestrade's house was nice, real nice, and the party was situated in the living room and kitchen, spilling out into the garden.

Sherlock was not happy. He and John had arrived in costume just as the music cut out and some prick in the corner dressed in an army costume had shouted, "_I said all these people are idiots_!"

With all attention on the man, they'd slipped in unnoticed. John was almost crushed by a curvy woman dressed on bondage gear ("What sort of a party IS THIS?" Sherlock had exclaimed, dragging the woman off John and pushing him to the drinks table. John on the other hand found the experience quite cultivating), and made their way through the crowd. As one absinthe became three, the dance floor became to swim and clothes started finding there way onto other people.

Was there really a banana break dancing or was that the drink? Is that the Doctor doing the limbo with Ken Barlow? _Why is there a fridge dancing with Mycroft?_

It was then that John realised, looking down at his bare chest, that maybe he'd had enough to drink, and pulled Sherlock over to the side for a slow dance. With their masks on, no one realised the long, slim Batman locked in an embrace with Robin was really Sherlock and John. And if they did, no one bothered to mention it.

At the end of the night, when people began to trickle out, John reached out to hold Sherlock's hand and they walked outside in search of a taxi, tripping and giggling and bursting into loud rounds of songs by Maroon 5.

"Shhhhhhhh." John chuckled, giving Sherlock's hand a squeeze. "We're being too loud. Babies are sleeping."

"Oh to hell with sleeping babies-" Sherlock slurred, a wide grin plastered across his face, "babies like singing!"

"Not your warbling." John smirked, nudging the taller man with his shoulder.

"I like to think I have a very cultivated, soulful singing voice." Sherlock admitted, hiccupping into the back of his hand. "S'nice."

John smirked louder and stumbled out into the road where a taxi had come to halt. "For you maybe. But for anyone with ears I can tell you it's not quite the same."

They bantered loudly the whole way home, and by the time they'd reached Baker Street the taxi driver was thankful to have them get out. They practically fell into 221b, not making it up the second set of stairs but subsiding into the sofa. John lay on his back with Sherlock flat over him, head tucked under John's chin . He had the mind to pull of their masks, and let his head fall back, arms tightening possessively around the detective.

"Night Sh'lock." He murmured, too tired and hazy to say anything more.

"Good night, my love."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Back at Lestrade's party; only two people remained. Lestrade – dressed quite dashingly as Zorro – was dancing, laughing loudly, beckoning at the other man dressed as a fridge to join him.

"I shan't, Greg, I'm too old for this." The man laughed, sprawled across the floor.

"Y'know it's quite ironic you're a fridge." Lestrade giggled, looming over the man. " 'Cos I would eat you out any night."

The man on the floor spluttered out a laugh and tugged at Lestrade's trousers. Lestrade responded and laid down next to him, smiling gently.

"Didn't think you were one for parties." Lestrade mused, rocking onto his side to face the man.

"Me neither." Mycroft replied. "Me neither."


End file.
